


Insignia

by cosmic_kid



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_kid/pseuds/cosmic_kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc decides what to do with his uniform, now that it doesn't matter anymore</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insignia

So they’re mostly meaningless now.

Funny, how the language shifts. We were soldiers once. Herc stares at the PPDC medals, stripes, ribbons. He sets his jaw tight, wonders if he should throw away the whole goddamn lot because it’s no good to him now. Either the world’s gonna end or it’s not, and the decision won’t hinge on all these worthless pieces of tin. We were soldiers once and now we’re skeletons. Useless shit clinging to picked-clean bones. Fuck it.

“Keep them.”

The Marshall fills the doorframe. He looks like a soldier even without the uniform. He was born a soldier, Herc thinks. That shoulder-set, the way he can turn a single word into a weapon or a blessing. Fuck the uniform, the Marshall wears his scars as medals and stars. Herc isn't that lucky. It takes a whole lot of work to make the rest of the world believe he is anything more than a brash, arrogant pilot. When Chuck steals the scene and brags over their kills, when he talks like they still have the upper hand, it makes Herc hurt- sadness, anger, all tumbling around into a wordless impotent rage because they are losing and the time for being young and proud is long gone. Mako’s single-minded gravitas makes sense. The Kaidonovskys’ cold fury makes sense. The Wei Tang triplets’ retreat into the rhythms of their connection makes sense. Even the goddamn scientists’ insistent bickering makes sense. They are wearing the only uniforms they have left. 

“Herc?”

“Sorry,” Herc says. He gets lost in his own head more and more these days, and he finds Chuck where he least expects him- memories of himself as a kid wearing Chuck’s face, Chuck kissing the girls he’s dated, Chuck getting into bar fights alongside Scott. “Keep ‘em for what? My son? He’s got his own. Worth nothing now.”

“You earned them,” the Marshall says. He looks exhausted and ill. Herc fucking hates it. People like the Marshall need to be made of stone. “That’s worth something, Herc. We’re not done yet. Not yet.”

The Marshall has to say shit like that because if he doesn't, no one will, and then what the hell’s the point.

“So what’s next?” Herc asks. He’s still holding on to his nameplate. HANSEN, the metal smudged by his fingerprints.

“I’m going to Alaska,” the Marshall says. “And then we’re going to finish this.”

“I’ll bet he didn't save nothing,” Herc says, not sure if he’s twisting his words with pity or envy. 

“Well he should have,” the Marshall says. He stares at Herc for a long moment, the dim Shatterdome lights turning them into half-shadows, barely held together by memories and dust and regret. They are war stories instead of war heroes. They are the sum of what is left behind, lighting futile torches in the dark for the dead, recognizing themselves only in stories other people tell. 

Herc meets the Marshall’s eyes and the space between them is the sum of their years- hot-headed kids sneaking off after hours, sweating in the heat of one another- all of that put aside as the responsibilities piled on, less time to be reckless, pleading with the leaders of the world for more money, more support, more time. Becoming the names on their breasts instead of the hearts within, burning, desperate, scars and all as familiar as the controls of their Jaegers. 

“Well look at us, Herc, we’re the same rank now,” the Marshall says. He smiles. Herc is glad to see he has enough energy to be sardonic. 

“Not breakin’ any rules then, I suppose,” Herc says, suddenly embarrassed. It’s like being naked in front of a stranger, torn down to the bare bones of what they’ve become. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Stacker says. 

Herc grins and puts his nameplate down on his desk, near the medals, the stripes, the ribbons. In faint light of Herc’s desk lamp, they cast the barest dulled glimmer, just enough to let you know they are there.

*

The next morning, Herc watches Stacker’s helicopter take off, Chuck at his shoulder, Max snuffling at the end of his lead. Chuck turns, glances at his father. “Fat lot of good this’ll do,” he says even though he doesn't have to because Herc already knows. Chuck is wearing his dog tags. We are not soldiers anymore, son. 

But Herc can smell Stacker on his skin and he thinks this is my uniform now. All they are is everyone they love. That is all they have left, but that is the most important thing. That is the hardest thing to kill.


End file.
